


three dozen moons with you in my mind

by pvwork



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1898892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pvwork/pseuds/pvwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is an in between season when time moves as slow as the heat haze that shimmers in the distance. Kageyama would be able to see his world shift by summers, if only he would dare to step back and look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three dozen moons with you in my mind

**Author's Note:**

> Second person narration. No quotation marks to set off dialogue.

You see him again for the first time that year in front of the gym. It’s unexpected, but more than that, it’s a shock to see his profile haloed by the morning sun as he stands still as a statue before the temple that at one point you both wanted to dedicated your lives to. Only one of you succeeded in making the proper sacrifices. 

He doesn’t belong here like he once did. 

What are you doing here, you ask him. 

He turns to smile at you and says, I’m home for the summer, so there’s not much to do. What about you? I would think that you would have better things to do than come to this gym so early on a Sunday.

Not really, you mutter and scuff your shoes into the dirt. You want the small cloud of dust to rise to cover you up so you don’t have to face him. 

Suga laughs, and you get caught up in how genuine it sounds, before you realize that he feels anything except actual mirth. Last year at this time, you would have believed him. You wonder how many summers it will take until you grow into a place where you will be able to unravel the mystery of his laugh, pick apart all the nuances of it like you do to the maneuvers of the team across the net. 

I guess I should have known better, he says. 

It stings, but you don’t know if you are hurt by his words or hurt for him. His words slip under your skin and make you uncomfortable. That he would think you have nothing better to do than serve at a line of water bottles all morning, which, admittedly, you were going to do, makes you think he doesn’t think highly of you. But at the same time, you are sympathetic. To give up that feeling of being on the court, to relinquish the rush of victory after a good point scored against a worthy opponent, who could survive the fall from such heights? 

I heard you made it to semi-finals of Interhigh this year. I’m really happy for you. 

It was the team, you blurt out. You want to take those words back the moment they travel the rough air space between the two of you and reach him. 

I mean, it was just the semi-finals. We didn’t win anything. 

You should have quit while you were ahead. You should have just stopped talking. You watch as he shuts down.

Suga makes a rather good show of checking his phone. He takes it out of his pocket with just the right amount of casual disinterest, and turns to you so naturally when he says, I’m so sorry I have to go. It was great catching up with you, Kageyama-kun.

It’s only later, days later, when your blurrily waking up with the sun streaming in through your open window do you realize that it was just an act to get away from you. His smile had fluttered at the edges as he turned to walk away in the same way your curtains do now in the early morning breeze. 

 

The next time you see him, it’s summer again and you are trying out something different. You’re running your hand through your newly shorn hair because it’s very short, not at all like the style you’ve worn it in for the past six years. 

Change is in the air, on the horizon, you could probably taste it if you breathed in hard enough. College next year, maybe, your mind automatically turns away from such thoughts, which make your eyes turn to him. 

He’s across the street this time, not just a few feet away looking at the front of a gym where he used to practice his heart out. He’s laughing open and honest and though you can’t hear it, you are caught by the line of his throat, the tilted angle of his head, the easy way his hand falls into the empty space between him and the man walking next to him. Their fingers tangle briefly in public. It’s a faint touch stolen at an indeterminate time, so sweet and brief that even you with your keen eye for detail would not be able to guess when it happened. You only know that it did.

You feel like you’ve run a hundred laps around the court. Your heart is beating fast in your chest as you walk away from them. 

Strangely, guilt pools in your stomach. For a brief moment, you had wondered what it would be like if you were the one he had shown that open expression to, something soft around the edges but with enough playful sharpness to it that it came across as compelling. 

There are many things that you know how to do, how to set the ball well, what it means to play head games with the other team when the game is close. That sort of knowledge only acts as a counterpoint to the startling lack of knowledge you have about matters of the heart, about your feelings towards Sugawara Koushi. You're afraid he hates you with feelings set to the same low heat your mother puts the stove on when she’s trying to make meat stew. Nothing boils over, but the important part is that everything stays warm, stays relevant.

 

This summer, you’re out of town. Training camp means spending the summer running. 

Running through different plays the coach wants polished to perfection. Running through different ways to improve the way you play volleyball, the way you mesh with your teammates. 

On training days that focus on conditioning, your heart races and sweat drips down your face, at times clinging to the tip of your nose before you swipe at it with your shirt or the back of an arm. Sometimes you’ll think about how feeling breathless from running is nothing at all compared to having your breath taken away just by watching the way he throws his head back to laugh. The way Suga had made you feel like your world was collapsing and your heart was going to give out right as you walked by him on a public street is unforgettable. 

You make sure to communicate clearly, laying on praise as needed. Every act on the court feels like you are pouring a libation to his ghost who flickers at the edge of your vision, just out of sight but still very present. 

It’s admiration with a touch of guilt. You aspire for absolution. Through the tinted looking glass of your memories you see someone you had many lessons to learn from, if only you had had the patience to listen to.

He’s not here to see you, but you want him to look your way. You’re never going to see him again, you think, as you spin the volleyball in your hands just before you serve. His phantom appears before you and tells you. ‘I will fight in my own way, and you will in yours’. It’s almost a comfort.

 

The _I thought you went home during the summers_ you blurt out is rebuffed by a good natured _I live here now_ on his part, which then morphs into a _Do you want to come see my place?_. 

You agree readily. On the way up into his apartment, you observe all the ways that he is different. His hair is cut in a different style, although it still looks very soft. Fly away strands of silver halo his head when he turns to smile at you and say in a conspiratorial tone, We country boys have to watch out for each other, yeah? 

His smile is still the same, you note as he opens the door for you and ushers you in. 

Suga’s space is neat, but obviously lived in. There’s a stray sweatshirt dumped onto the couch and a school bag overflowing with papers next to the kitchen table. 

Sorry for the mess, he explains. I live alone, 

You flush and wave him away because you live alone too and use that as an excuse to splay your things everywhere. You don’t dare to even conjure up the memory of the mess your kitchen is in, in case that it would sully the clean counters and spotless sink you see before you. 

So I heard you made it to the Olympics, he says conversationally over dinner. You shrug your shoulders to try and shake off the strong sense of deja vu that traces cold fingers down your spine. 

I didn’t go alone, you reply. You had weighed the words on your tongue this time and found that they were just enough. You blink, and at the back of your eyelids, as clear as if it just happened the other day, is Hinata plucking at his number ten jersey with a kind of manic glee just before you all step onto the volleyball court for your first match of the summer games. 

It’s the first time Japan’s national mens volleyball team has won a medal in thirty-nine years. 

It’s just bronze, you say into your food. 

Suga’s eyes are bright as they look at you from across the table. He leans over the distance between the two of you and you can’t tear your eyes away from his. His breath fans across your cheek, and makes you blink your eyes shut. You keep your eyes closed because you’re not sure you can handle reading the expression on his face in this moment. His voice is close, and your mind draws up his phantom figure flickering at the edge of the court. 

Success doesn’t always mean being the very best. Sometimes, it’s just about being better than you were before. 

Somehow, you end up over at his place for dinner most nights of the week after that. You talk about what its like to be on a professional volleyball team and he tells you what it's like to double major in psychology and early education. He's a different person from when he was in high school, and so are you.

The whole setup feels like you're playing house with him. Your lives have become a thin film of make believe taped up to catch the light of reality. It’s unreal some days, when you check your texts after afternoon practice to find that he wants you to drop by the supermarket and grab a carton of eggs because he wants to make fried rice for dinner.

You don’t know you love him until you’re sitting on the couch one Saturday night eating ice pops together and listening to him complain about the heat while the only light in the whole room comes from the tv. For the life of you, you wouldn’t know what show was playing, but you could list all the different ways that Suga hated the summer heat in a heartbeat. 

The couch in his apartment is a little old, so when two people sit side by side they invariable begin to slide towards each other. He’s pressed against your left side and you move your arm to rest along the back of the couch so that’s it doesn’t fall asleep from the weight of him. You didn’t account for the fact that Suga would then slide into you, his head a solid weight against your shoulder and his lips, sticky and blue, curled up in a grin. 

Oh, you think, blinking at him as he reaches out to take the wrapper of the ice pop you’ve been clutching tightly. 

He stands and you don’t manage to move your outstretched legs quickly enough so when he takes his next step in the near darkness he trips on your ankle. You make a grab for him and he ends up half crouched over you, a knee between your legs, one hand on your shoulder, the other hand clutched in yours. His lips are so close that you can almost taste the blue raspberry sweetness that stain them.

He laughs and apologizes, but doesn’t make to move away. 

It’s not the same laugh you heard three summers ago. You still can’t pick up on all the different ways Suga can laugh about something, but you think that you’d be happy to learn. Happy to figure out all the ways you could make him laugh easily, the bold curve of his lips making your knees weak every time.

It doesn’t look the same as that laugh you saw across the street two summers ago. His hair is sweat slick against his temples this time, and instead of throwing his head back he’s laughing with his forehead pressed to yours, close and intimate. He’s closed his eyes and his lips are blue and you have never wanted to be near someone as you do him, like this, this summer. 

I’m not. I-I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad that you’re here too. 

Suga sighs and bumps his nose against yours, his lashes fluttering as he opens his eyes. That was surprisingly smooth, Tobio, he says playfully. Your grip loosens as he pulls his hands free to settle around your neck, thumbs pressed into the curve of your jaw to tilt your face up to meet his more easily. You fall back into the couch, and you blush so red that you’re certain someone will be naming a new shade after you soon.

He kisses are syrup-sweet and cherry-red and you sigh into them. He nips at your bottom lip and you open up to him, the hinge of your jaw moving slowly under his fingers, his tongue licking into your mouth with hot, insistent strokes. Your gasp is one that he swallows smoothly. Kissing someone who likes to be so slow and thorough reminds you of the ocean, the waves moving along the sand in long lazy lines, steadily carrying itself across the beach at a careless, easy pace. He has you desperate and you try not to shiver at the heat curling up comfortably in your stomach, the unsteady way your heart pounds as his hands trace your sides while he takes off your shirt. 

You’re hands were tangled in his hair before he moved away, but now you’re sliding them up along his bare thighs bracketing your hips in the spare moment he offers as he let’s your shirt and his drop onto the ground by the couch.

You’re going for gold already? he asks. Your hands stutter over the fabric at the bottom of his shorts.

The comment would sting if not for the way he was looking at you with such bright eyes, his hair sticking up at odd angles from your hands, and his smile brighter than the sun. His skin shines in the pale light of the tv and you think that you would like to kiss the ink that’s spiraling like ivy down his sides, and lick at the cage of his ribs, taste the sweat that pools at his collarbone, just once, just to know what it’s like. 

As he stands, you realize that once wouldn’t be enough. You want to keep playing house, build up this life until it’s strong and stout and solid as reality. You want him like you want forever at your fingertips, gripping your shoulder and kissing you senseless, the summer heat paling in comparison to the way he makes you flush red-hot.

Suga stands and looks over his shoulder as he drifts further into his apartment.

Do you want to? Go for gold that is. 

Your breath hitches and all the words you can’t seem to say all at once make the words that do come out sound wrecked and broken. Y-yeah, you say as you stand and follow after him into the cool darkness. There’s just enough light shining through the window to see him smile at you. You learn it by heart and when you reach out to him, his hair bleached bone white in the moonlight and his skin taking on a phantom sheen, he reaches back and kisses you with lips that still taste faintly of blue raspberry.


End file.
